Читать книгу: «Taken: Part 1 of 3»

Chapter Two

And so at a little after half past one I climbed the stairs to the third floor of B wing in Queen Charlotte’s Hospital, filled with the anticipation that a new placement always roused in me. Though it would be nice to claim it, I had no feeling of foreboding at that time, no sense of the dramatic twists and turns that awaited us in the months to come.

What I could say honestly enough though was that I was struck by a strong sense of recognition as soon as I caught sight of Megan’s little face. I’m still not sure how it was even possible, but from that very first moment she felt as familiar to me as all of the veins and tendons on the back of my own hand.

At the reception of the special care baby unit, one of the midwives checked my Bright Heights security pass and gave Peggy a quick call to confirm my identity. After I had washed my hands and used the alcohol rub to cleanse them, the nurse showed me into the unit and guided me to Megan’s crib. Several of the other mothers gave me curious glances as I went, but I was so excited to see the baby that I only half-registered them.

Swaddled snugly in a white cellular blanket, Megan lay on her side in a see-through Perspex open incubator, a folded blanket tucked behind her back to prevent her from rolling over. As I neared, the first thing I noticed was her dark, downy hair. Long for a newborn, it emerged from beneath the white woollen hat she wore in soft wisps, falling across the tops of her ear and towards the nape of her neck. Her delicately fine fringe brushed her eyebrows and skimmed the tips of dark lashes.

Taking in her rounded forehead, flattened nose and large hazel eyes, I felt a rush of tenderness, so much so that my eyes misted over and a lump rose in my throat. She looked so beautiful and vulnerable and, rocked by the strength of my feelings, I’m ashamed to say that, for a split-second, I considered calling Peggy to tell her I had made a mistake – I wasn’t sure I was up to caring and then parting with another baby.

‘Adorable isn’t she?’ the midwife whispered. About fortyish, she slipped her arm around my waist as she stood beside me, giving me a friendly, unexpected hug. The tip of a name badge was visible over the top of the plastic apron she wore, fixed to her royal-blue uniform. When she released her grip and turned to face me, I could just about make out the letters: ‘ANGIE’. ‘We’ve barely taken our eyes off her since she came in,’ she added.

I smiled, knowing that babies in care were often singled out by midwives for their most special attention: the empty visitors’ chair at the side of the crib a poignant reminder of their aloneness in the world. ‘Absolutely,’ I said, all thoughts of fleeing put firmly aside. I loved being a foster carer and my whole family adored looking after little ones. Saying goodbye was tough, of course it was, but I had managed it several times before and there were hundreds, if not thousands, of people all over the country who would snap up the chance of caring for a newborn baby. I was lucky enough to be in a position to take that opportunity. And besides, nothing worthwhile was ever going to be a piece of cake.

‘Ready for a cuddle?’ the midwife asked, one eyebrow cocked.

‘I thought you’d never ask.’ I cast my shoulder bag aside on the empty chair beside the crib and rubbed my hands together as if they needed warming up. They didn’t – if the inside of my car had turned into a sauna, the hushed, airless interior of the unit felt like a kiln.

‘Here she is,’ Angie said, planting the tiny baby in my arms. Megan registered the change with a blink of surprise. After several longer, slower blinks she fixed me with an unfocused but slightly amused gaze, as if she’d been expecting me and was wondering why I had taken so long to arrive.

A floating sensation ran through my limbs, the feeling spreading up my torso and fanning itself out inside my chest. I stood transfixed, aware of her warmth seeping into my arms. Edging backwards until my calves touched the back of the chair, I lowered myself down, ignoring the bulk of my bag pressing against the base of my spine. Angie reached over and grabbed the bag, tucking it on the floor beneath the crib. I thanked her without looking up and shuffled back in my seat, my eyes taking in the tiny purplish veins running in minuscule branches across Megan’s cheeks and the slightly mottled skin covering the soft contour of her forehead.

Her button nose was slightly squashed against one cheek and, beneath the small fist hovering an inch from her face, I noticed a cute little pleat in her chin. Just above, her tiny mouth pulsated at intervals around a small medical-looking dummy. It was only then that I took in the small gap, maybe a centimetre or so wide, visible in her top lip. Tilting my head, I tried to see how large an area was affected by the cleft – as far as I could make out, without removing her dummy, it wasn’t nearly as extensive as I had feared when I had spoken to Peggy on the telephone. ‘I’ve seen worse,’ Angie said, picking up on my scrutiny. ‘She’ll need surgery in a few months, but if she’s lucky she might get away with just one or two procedures.’

‘Oh, that’s good,’ I answered absently, my heart skipping as I touched Megan’s small hand. Tranquil and pale, she fixed her gaze on me and closed her fingers tightly around one of mine, almost as if she was claiming me. ‘She seems very contented,’ I managed to say, though I was so absorbed that my voice sounded muted, even to my own ears.

‘That’s the baby methadone doing its work,’ Angie murmured, leaning close. ‘She had another dose a couple of hours ago.’

I looked up sharply. Peggy had mentioned that Megan’s mother had a history of drug and alcohol abuse, but somehow I hadn’t processed the possibility that she might have used during her pregnancy. I wasn’t sure why it hadn’t occurred to me – I had cared for babies suffering from neonatal abstinence syndrome, or NAS, before – but I think it was probably because I found it difficult to believe that any drug had the potency to override a mother’s instinct to protect. I knew from caring for Sarah that babies were only prescribed methadone if their withdrawal symptoms were particularly severe. In most cases, TLC and a heavy helping of stamina were enough to nurse them through the worst of it. Angie pouted grimly and I pulled a face back. ‘Oh dear, poor thing.’ And then another thought occurred to me. ‘Is that what caused –?’ I tilted my head towards Megan, indicating the cleft.

Angie whistled softly. She crossed one leg behind the other, leaned her elbow on the crib and put her other hand on her hip. ‘It’s hard to say. Some drugs are linked to clefts – diazepam for instance – but as far as we know Mum wasn’t on that.’ The midwife was speaking so quietly that I had to lean forward to make out her words. ‘Christina swore she wasn’t on anything. Sister realised little one was clucking the day after she was born. We couldn’t leave her to muddle through, poor little love, not without a bit of help. She was in a lot of pain.’ And then, with sudden vehemence, she added in a fierce whisper: ‘In the States they recognise unborns as victims, so I’m told, but over here we don’t seem to see them as people in their own right. Personally I’d prosecute these mothers. We’re told not to stigmatise them; that they’re the victims and they need help, but most of the time they don’t even want to stop. They must know how awful it feels to go cold turkey, but that doesn’t stop them putting their own baby through it.’ Angie lowered her voice still further. ‘And we’re supposed to feel sympathy for them?’ She blew out her lips. ‘Look at the harm they do.’

Quietly enraged, spots of pink appeared on Angie’s cheeks. I pressed my lips together, shaking my head. Her words had reminded me of something I learned recently when I attended a local-authority-run course on drug and alcohol addiction. According to the tutor, roughly 1,500 babies a year were born addicted to drugs in the UK, and the figure was rising year on year. What really surprised me, though, was that some remained in the care of their mothers, despite their ongoing addiction.

While I had seen some birth parents battle against the grip that illegal substances held over them, plenty of others seemed to indulge themselves without troubling their consciences too much. Working at the sharp end in one of the largest cities in the UK, I imagined that Angie’s view had been coloured by the number of babies she had seen suffering as a result of their mothers’ addiction.

Angie ran a hand across her forehead and blew out some air. ‘Anyway, what can you do except deal with the fall-out as best as you can? The good news is that baby’s coping well on the minimum dose and we’re stretching it out to six-hourly now. She’ll be on eight-hourly by tomorrow and hopefully off a few days after that.’

‘How long before I can take her home?’

Angie smiled then, the vestiges of anger leaving her face. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful to hear. Lovely to know she’ll be going home to a family.’ She tilted her head. ‘Do you have your own children?’

‘Yes, Emily’s 16, Jamie’s just 13 and we’ve got another girl staying with us at the moment who’s almost 14. They can’t wait to meet this little one,’ I said, which was mostly true. Emily and Jamie were really excited to have another baby in the house but Zadie had seemed nonplussed when I broke the news about Megan.

Last night Emily and Jamie had delighted in helping me to order a cot, pram and all the accessories online, but Zadie had hidden herself away in her room. I suspected that she was worried about being sidelined with the arrival of another child but I was sure she would warm to the idea when she realised her fears were unfounded.

‘That’s great, really great,’ Angie said, and I was surprised to see her eyes filling up. ‘Oh heck, look at me. We grow close to them here, you know. It’s surprising how quickly it happens when Mum only has limited contact.’

I threw my eyes up to the ceiling and then gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Yes, tell me about it.’

‘God, I’d make a terrible foster carer.’ Angie leaned closer and laughed conspiratorially. ‘They’d find me halfway across Europe with the baby stuffed inside my coat or something. Angie Wickens, wanted by Interpol! I can see it now.’

I laughed along with her, trying not to jog around too much because Megan’s eyelids were beginning to droop. ‘I don’t let myself think about the end until I have to.’

‘Oh,’ Angie said, fanning her eyes with her hand. ‘It gets me, just thinking about it.’ She bit down on her lower lip, looking at Megan thoughtfully. ‘We won’t discharge her until she’s off the medication. Methadone can suppress breathing so she’ll need close monitoring all the while she’s on that – but as soon as she’s off it you can take her home. She’ll be at the hospital for her surgery, but she’ll come back here for outpatient check-ups. She’s only 5lb so they’ll want to monitor that, but she’s doing well, considering. Feeding can be a bit tricky but don’t worry, I’ll show you what to do.’ She stilled for a moment and then tapped my arm. ‘Tell you what, she’s due a bottle soon. We try to time her feeds between doses, when she’s not too sleepy but not too fretful either. Give me two ticks.’

A few minutes later the midwife returned armed with a bottle of milk and a plastic pipette with a rubber bulb on the end, similar in appearance to the ones I had seen gardeners use to feed plants. Noticing my puzzled stare, she tucked the bottle under one arm and held the pipette out to me with her free hand. ‘It’s a bulb suction,’ she explained. ‘You use it if milk pools in her nose when she’s feeding.’ She must have noticed the look on my face because she quickly added: ‘Don’t worry – it sounds worse than it is. We won’t send her home until you’re confident about what you’re doing. There’s lots of support if you find it tough. I’ll give you all the contacts before you leave.’

Angie handed the bottle to me and then gently pinched Megan’s toes to rouse her. The baby’s eyelids fluttered and then she snorted a half-yawn, half-cough. Her dummy fell out, rolling over the blanket and out of sight. ‘Keep her fairly upright,’ Angie said, coming around the back of the chair and leaning over the top so that her arms were free to guide me. ‘That’s it. Now, reach round with what I call your embracing hand, the one you’re cuddling her with, and hold her lips together with your fingers. There,’ Angie said encouragingly as I touched the teat to Megan’s lips. ‘You want a tight seal to create some suction.’

Megan’s mouth fell open and she shook her head, rooting. ‘Make sure you position the teat over her tongue,’ Angie said, pressing down gently on Megan’s chin. ‘The bottle has soft sides so you can squeeze them if she doesn’t seem to be getting much, but we’ve found she can suck effectively if you get the seal right. The cross-cut teats help.’ Latching onto the teat, Megan began sucking sleepily. At first there was a random slurping noise, a bit like the sound of a dog lapping at a puddle, and I could tell that it was a bit unproductive. ‘Don’t be afraid to be a bit more forceful. Unless you fix a seal she won’t get much milk,’ Angie said, placing her hand on my forearm.

‘I’m worried I’ll hurt her.’

‘You won’t. She’s a lot tougher than she looks, honestly.’

It was a tricky manoeuvre, and at the back of my mind I was wary of letting her suck too hard in case she choked, but after a couple of attempts I relaxed and got the hang of it. I couldn’t help smiling at the loud clicking noises she made as her tongue worked at the teat and then the cute little goya-goya of her swallows. She sucked with a sort of desperation, as if she knew she was going to have to fight harder than the other babies on the ward, the ones with parents close by.

Rivulets of milk ran from her nose down to her chin. Angie tucked a folded muslin square in the fold of her neck, reassuring me that leakage was normal with cleft babies. ‘Perfect,’ she said, patting my arm. But a minute or so later Megan jerked back, eyes widened in alarm. She fixed a panicked gaze directly on me as if to say, Please, DO SOMETHING! ‘Here you go,’ Angie said briskly, pressing the suction into my hand. With quickening pulse, I worked to clear her nasal passage while she floundered in my arms. It was a relief to find that the suction did its job quickly. Instinctively I shifted the baby to an upright position, making a pillow of my shoulder. After a few rattling breaths she gave a sigh, the curve of her back moulding itself magically into my palm. My heart melted. ‘That was great, Rosie, well done.’

I let out a breath and rolled my eyes. ‘Phew! That was a bit hairy.’

‘It is at first, I know, but you’ll get used to it,’ Angie said, as Megan began to complain. I set her on my lap again and offered her some more milk, keeping the suction close by on the arm of the chair. Megan pounced eagerly on the teat and Angie gave a little laugh. After a minute or so, she patted my shoulder and bustled off to the nurses’ station in the middle of the ward.

Knowing that I wasn’t causing Megan any discomfort, it was easier to fix a seal the second time around. Every so often she opened her eyes and gazed up at me, the look so trusting that my heart swelled. Time stalled and, immersed in what I was doing, I didn’t notice anyone approaching until a shadow fell across Megan’s face. I turned, taking in a pair of pink slippers. I looked up, the swollen but slightly deflated stomach belonging to the woman in front of me revealing that she was one of the newly delivered mothers.

‘Hi,’ she whispered, introducing herself as Erin. She smiled down at Megan. ‘Ah, bless, what a darling.’ Her eyes swept over Megan’s face, lingering on my fingers as they held the cleft together and the soft-sided bottle. Her brow furrowed inquisitively. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here,’ she said after a short pause, leaning forward so that her face was level with mine. ‘My heart bleeds when she cries. She goes on and on, till she’s hoarse. We can’t bear it. She even whimpers in her sleep.’ Erin pouted her lower lip in a gesture of sadness and frowned. ‘Then all of a sudden she goes still, just staring up at the ceiling and you don’t hear a peep out of her. It’s like she’s given up, as if she knows no one’s coming.’